estbridge, Wednesday," said one to the other. This woman had a
curiously cool, long-reaching breath when she spoke. Maria felt it
like a fan on the back of her neck.

The other woman, who was fat, responded with a wheezy voice. "It was
queer about that niece of hers, who taught school in Westbridge,
running away and dying so dreadful sudden, wasn't it?" said she.

"Dreadful queer. I guess her aunt and sister felt pretty bad about
it, and I s'pose they do now; but it's a year ago, and they've left
off their mourning."

"Of course," said the other woman. "They would leave it off on
account of--"

Maria did not hear what followed, for a thundering freight-train
passed them and drowned the words. After the train passed, the fat
woman was saying, with her wheezy voice, "Mr. Lee's mother's death
was dreadful sudden, wasn't it?"

"Dreadful."

"I wonder if he likes living in Amity as well as Westbridge?"

"I shouldn't think he would, it isn't as convenient to the academy."

"Well, maybe he will go back to Westbridge after a while," said the
other woman, and again her breath fanned Maria's neck.

She wondered what it meant. A surmise came to her, then she dismissed
it. She was careful to keep her back turned to the women when the
train pulled into Amity. She had no baggage except a suit-case. She
got off the train, and disappeared in the familiar darkness. All at
once it seemed to her as if she had returned from the unreal to the
real, from fairy-land to the actual world. The year past seemed like
a dream to her. She could not believe it. It was like that fact which
is stranger than fiction, and therefore almost impossible even to
write, much less to live. Miss Rosa Blair, and her travellings in
Europe, and her house in New York, seemed to her like an Arabian
Night's creation. She walked along the street towards her aunt's
house, and realized her old self and her old perplexities. When she
drew near the house she saw a light in the parlor windows and also in
Aunt Maria's bedroom. Aunt Maria had evidently gone to her room for
the night. Uncle Henry's side of the house was entirely dark.

Maria stole softly into the yard, and paused in front of the parlor
windows. The shades were not drawn. There sat Evelyn at work on some
embroidery, while opposite to her sat Wollaston Lee, reading aloud.
In Evelyn's lap, evidently hampering her with her work, was a
beautiful yellow cat, which she paused now and then to stroke. Maria